It’s a busy day, today, and the beginning of a busy week. Lots to do, and all of it outside the normal routine by which a person of my type of domestic lifestyle depends for survival. Yet, in the midst of all this hecticness, I am struck with a seemingly random thought: I don’t much care for Oklahoma.
I would assert that my incredibly generalized and completely unfounded dislike for the entire state doesn’t make me a bad person. It doesn’t mean that I kick puppies, steal babies, or push the elderly into the street and steal their oxygen for whippits. A fella can have a negative opinion about something nowadays, right?
Regardless, my judgement of Oklahoma comes from experiences with the Sooner State that haven’t exactly been Mickey at Disneyland. Mostly, I’ve just been passing through, en route to more fun places like Las Vegas, Tombstone, and The Dorothy’s House Museum in Kansas. But you can’t just drive through the place scott free, no, no. The are tolls, many, many tolls along the Will Rogers Turnpike.
Tolls, in case you weren’t aware, are evil, and a horrendous pain if you want to stop for a Coke or some beef jerky. I drink a lot of Coke, and occasionally enjoy some dried beef; I’m sure, then, that my position is clear. Not quite? Ok, well, tolls are evil like clowns, and we all definitely know about the clowns.
That’s not to say that there isn’t one or two redeeming things about the place. Well, maybe one. Lo, the many years ago, when the Puddinpop still percolated as the proverbial bun in the Puddinette’s oven, we took a road trip to a quant little OK town for a wedding.
The wedding was fine, although dry, and I’m a firm believer that punch ruins a reception.
While we were there, though, I had the best italian food I’ve ever eaten. The restaurant was a family owned place in a town where Italian immigrants apparently settled generations ago. It was an old family house, literally, where the waiting area used to be the family room and we were seated in the den. It was odd, to be sure, but the meatballs were perfect and the spaghetti was the best I’ve ever eaten.
I find myself cringing at the thought of ever again passing through Oklahoma, where you’ll find cities named Ada, Enid, Alva, and Norman and have to pay for the privelege of driving through them. Still though, I remember the taste of those meatballs, fondly.
I don’t have fond memories of a lot of places. I have no memories of Colorado. I’ve never been, yet people apparently love it there. I have been to San Diego, but only once, to meet a girl; turns out she was already into someone else and we were destined to be friends. I haven’t spoken to her in over a decade, though, so I guess that friendship thing didn’t really work out. I’ve never been to to Hawaii, either, so have no fond memories there at all.
Thinking of all that, maybe I should take it easy on Oklahoma; at least I can happily remember the Italian food. Then again, the place is very dry and has too many damned tolls. Screw it, the Olive Garden beats paying for access to a road.